A Study in the Mind Palace
by DarkledMind
Summary: Moriarty crouched in front of Sherlock. "No one ever taught you how to use a mind palace, did they?" Sherlock only glared. With a sigh, the criminal smiled in a sick way. Sherlock swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. "Well, it is time someone taught you." He grabbed the detective's face and squeezed, his sick smile growing into a dastardly grin. "Let's level the field"
1. Let Us Begin

**WARNING this work will contain the following: Johnlock, Sheriarty, violence, blood, torture, abuse, mental anguish and more.**

**This chapter contains none of the above**

* * *

Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat, arms crossed behind him and hands clenched as he gazed with ice at the screen. Moriarty glowered back at him with those empty brown eyes, only filled with flame. That smug smile tore at him and Sherlock had to swallow again.

Mycroft stood next to the screen, leaning on his umbrella, his thumb rubbing on the tip of the curve in slow and nervous circles. The older Holmes brother had narrowed his eyes slightly and a disappointed smirk crossed his face as he addressed his younger brother. "Well then? I thought you said he shot himself."

Sherlock looked to the ground, his eyes large like he was searching for something. "He did. I heard the gunshot. He fell on the ground and was bleeding!" The detective started pacing back and forth and muttering incoherently to himself.

"And you didn't check for a pulse?"

The detective immediately shot his head to look up at Mycroft with a glare. "He shot himself in the head!"

Mycroft snorted and rolled his eyes, switching which foot he was leaning on, casually, but Sherlock could tell there was something else...

John, who had stood to the side of Sherlock looked up and smacked his lips nervously. "He's right. There is no way he could have known. Besides," he looked briefly to Sherlock as if for support and then blazingly at Mycroft, "It's not like your people checked either."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "That's preposterous."

"But obviously true, Mycroft," Sherlock said pointedly with a touch of venom in his voice.

John cocked his head slightly to the side. "Really? Preposterous? Because either your people did a horrific job," The doctor clenched his hand and looked at the floor, then to the door suspiciously.

Mycroft glared. "Or what?"

John sighed and gazed back up at the brother, straightened his jacket and stiffened his neck. "Or you knew about this the whole time."

Mycroft tilted his nose up and looked down at John, clenching his jaw repeatedly, and then rolling his tongue over his teeth and lips, biting them lightly before finally saying, "Absurd."

Sherlock looked at Mycroft, his mouth agape. "You knew! You bastard." And he pointed with an accusing finger, taking deliberate steps towards his brother, and only stopped when John cleared his throat with a very loud and clear purpose.

Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes at his passionate brother. "We had our suspicions."

Sherlock bit his lips and inhaled deeply through his nose, eyes livid as he pointed again at his brother. "Really? We had our suspicions? And while I was trying to tear down his web, you weren't even sure he was dead? For god's sake!" He turned away and clenched fists of hair in his lithe fingers. The detective dropped to the ground in an almost feral crouch. His hands still in his hair, he placed his head in between his knees and seemed to growl in frustration.

Mycroft looked away from his brother, and was about to address John when he saw the look on the doctor's face. John was a bizarre creature, Mycroft finally concluded at that moment. He always seemed the reasonable one out of the duo. Level headed and practical in impractical situations, an effect of the war he supposed. Of course he didn't suppose, he knew. But at moments like this is when John almost surprised him. Almost. His steadfast loyalty showed itself almost unexpectedly. Again, almost. When he would usually be level-headed, John would become clouded when he perceived Sherlock was threatened. Mycroft smirked to himself. _"They should just kiss already and get it over with. Might make Sherlock more reasonable too_."

John cocked his head to the side and sighed. "So, what are we going to do?" His eyes locked with Mycroft still, in a threat that could not be perceived as empty.

Sherlock buzzed through Mycroft and John, with palpable determination. "We obviously go out and solve this."

Mycroft deflated and stared down at the ground with a sigh before staring back up and turning towards Sherlock, who was grabbing his coat and scarf off of the door in 221B. "Sherlock, I doubt-"

Sherlock jumped in front of Mycroft, one finger pointing as he stood off-kilter on a single foot, putting on his jacket. "That is your problem Mycroft, you doubt!" He put his scarf on and grabbed John's wrist and pulled him away from Mycroft. John widened his eyes and did an awkward little one foot hop, then falling in step with Sherlock. The doctor looked over his shoulder to see Mycroft leaning on his umbrella, shaking his head and giving a stiff little wave.

Mrs. Hudson was at the foot of the stairs, her thin little arms wrapped around her and trembling like a leaf in the wind. Her voice was even more shaky than usual as she called out, "Sherlock, do be careful."

Mary who had been looking down at her phone quickly looked up, squeezed Mrs. Hudson's shoulder and then followed the boys. John turned around and grabbed her by the shoulders, his fingers digging in for just a second before he breathed and relaxed. "You need to stay here, Mary," he said with conviction.

Mary smirked lightly at him. "You can't leave me, I'm pregnant."

Mrs. Hudson shuffled over and put a hand on Mary's shoulder, covering John's hand reassuringly. "I will watch over her. Now you go keep Sherlock safe."

Mary stiffened slightly and forced a smile. John frowned, his eyes narrowing in a dangerous way. They nodded to each other, communicating silently and stiffly. Mrs. Hudson wrapped her arm around the pregnant woman, and shot a questioning glance to John, who gave a small shrug and a sad frown that spoke volumes. The landlady, understanding, frowned and nodded.

John turned on his heel and went outside to find Sherlock already climbing in a cab. The doctor sprinted quickly and slipped inside before Sherlock closed the door. Of Course, his shirttails got caught, so he re-opened and closed the door. After brushing off for a second, he turned to his companion, and asked, "So? Where to?"

Sherlock leaned forward to the cabby slightly and said, "The BBC Media Centre."

John furrowed his brow. "Really?"

Sherlock nodded. "Mycroft knew nothing, but someone in there must know-"

"You don't know that. We never even asked what your brother knew-"

"He obviously didn't know. If there was some inkling he would have told me-"

"We were in there for less than five minutes-"

Sherlock sighed heavily and annoyed, and turned towards John. "Well then, what about the flight?" His motions were over exaggerated comically. John turned towards Sherlock as well.

"He was on the phone getting information."

Sherlock pointed at John and stared at the window. "No, he was comforting officials-"

John looked out the window as well, and when realizing their odd direction leaned forward to the cabby, then stopped. "Sherlock."

"And the reason I know that was because he was gripping the phone tightly-"

"Sherlock, stop."

"And biting his lips-"

"Sherlock, listen to me."

"Which he always does when he is nervous-"

"Sherlock, you incompetent cock, listen to me."

"You know-" And finally, Sherlock did stop, when he saw the familiar hand clench, and when he looked at John's face, he could see the raw fear in his eyes. The detective cocked his head to the side and opened his mouth and puckered in question, then closed it and furrowed his brow. "John, what's wrong?"

The cabby then took a sharp turn down an alleyway, jostling his subjects as the car itself sat on two wheels for a split second. Sherlock braced himself against John and then the cab fell back into place and raced away.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Why didn't you wear a seatbelt? This wouldn't be so awkward then."

The detective and the doctor were in a pile on the floor, locked together when the cab fell back into place after the sharp turn. The two struggled together and tried to get up, but the cabby threw a heavy blanket over them casually, making the struggle even more difficult. "Now now, be a little discrete, won't you?" And that is when it clicked for Sherlock, and the wave of fear came over him.

He could taste it in the air. Fear was a metallic, heavy taste that suffocated the lungs and coated them in adrenaline. The cabby laughed, and repositioned his hands on the wheel at ten and two and floored it. He was so close to the prize, the destination, the solution to this minute problem.

Sherlock panted and looked at John in the dim light. "John, I am so sorry."

The doctor sighed and stared pointedly at Sherlock. "You better be."

Sherlock smiled a little, but then there was another turn, in the opposite direction this time, that unlodged the duo from each other. Sherlock immediately shot up and threw the heavy blanket off. He quickly grabbed for the door, but it was locked.

"Ah, ah, ah Sherly," the cabby said in a lilted voice, "Wouldn't want you to ruin the fuuuun."

The cab jolted again as they flew down the stairs and into the tunnels below the city. Sherlock was whipped against the window and he could feel his head beginning to bleed, but he had to make it through this. Molly had him place pressure on the wound, and talked to him through the haze and the ringing.

He realized the car was still moving, but the motion was in a straight line at a fair speed along concrete (too smooth to be asphalt). There was an eerie silence in the tunnels as the fluorescent light flickered in a steady pattern that was hypnotizing to the stunned detective. Sherlock could hear the car running now, through the ringing, and when the ringing had dulled significantly, he heard the cock of a pistol.

The cabby laughed. "Johnny boy, you are just too cute. You wouldn't shoot me." Sherlock's stomach turned and he forced back a gag. The fear began taking over again. And nothing in his palace could help him with this, this stomach churning sickness induced by a sickly sweet voice with tones of up and down that just-

"How do you know I won't?" John's voice brought him back to Earth, and he felt immediately relaxed. The weight wasn't gone, but he could breathe again.

The cabby laughed and slowed down to a stop. "Because you don't know what's out there. And besides," He turned, and with those empty, burning eyes, bore into the detective, "Guns don't hurt me, right Sherlock?"

John swore, loudly, and the cabby rolled his eyes. "Shut up, won't you?" He took a gun out of his pocket and shot John.

Sherlock screamed, his world slowing down as the adrenaline pumped through his veins and the haze from the wound combined into a dizzying mixture. He shouted out his friend's name, and lunged at his falling body. But John moved, and made what was an odd gesture Sherlock couldn't understand in the haze.

"Oh don't be ridiculous, Sherlock." There was another shot, and the detective felt a prick in his shoulder. It wasn't a bullet, but a tranquilizer. He fell onto the doctor with a gasp. The two were leaning against the door on top of one another, and the door just seemed to open of its own accord as the duo fell out of the car. Sherlock rolled onto his back with an aching sigh, the dart pressing farther into him.

As he looked up, the cabby, stood above them, clicking his tongue. "Besides, where would be the fun in killing him?"

The color drained from the world as Sherlock closed his aching eyes reluctantly.

Moriarty smirked as he stood above the two of them. "Nighty night, boys."

But John hadn't slipped yet into the relaxing grip of unconsciousness. He struggled against the weight in his arms, but managed to point the gun up at the criminal, who looked and laughed, stomping his feet furiously as he bent over double. John growled and even screamed as he tried to pull the trigger, but Moriarty just laughed even more. John felt the light slipping and he knew he had to do it, but as soon as his finger twitched, Moriarty kicked his wrist. There was the sound of grinding bones and flesh. The gun fell out of his hand, and the villain kicked it away.

The last thing he heard and saw before he slipped away was Moriarty, crouching above him with his feet on either side of his head, face inches from him. John could smell his aftershave, light with a deeply hidden musk. It made him sick. Moriarty smiled a toothy grin and whispered, "Don't worry doctor, it was just a sprain." Now all the color drained from the world as John closed his aching eyes.

* * *

**AN: Please read and review! I would love it. If this chapter doesn't seem to be very good, tell me why! I need to get back into the swing of writing like this, so any and all criticism is accepted. Shout out to deducingbbcsherlock as I will be using a few of her metas in this work. Thanks for reading!**


	2. Footman

Sherlock awoke with an aching pain on his left hip. And on his wrists. And his knees. And his neck. And his jaws. "Really, Moriarty? Was the ball gag necessary?" The detective didn't even try to open his eyes, as he could feel the satin-finished blind wrapped around his head and sitting on the bridge of his nose. He tried to sigh, but decided to make an unsatisfied grunt around the rubber ball.

He felt light vibrations behind him and heard a tap-tap-tap. The blind was lifted, the satin falling across his cheekbones and jaw. It was soft and Sherlock almost couldn't help but leaning into its grazing touch.

Moriarty walked past him, the red scarf held delicately between his index and middle finger, flicking it lightly as he walked past Sherlock, like a cat playing with a toy. He stopped and did a small turn about five feet away from the detective, stood with his hands behind his back and his feet shoulder width apart. The scarf was dangling down and touching the floor, still swaying lightly.

Sherlock tried to look up into the eyes of the criminal, but as he tried the sound of metal and chains clashed together, and his neck locked into place.

The criminal laughed, and tapped his foot slightly. "Dear me, little Sherly." His voice had a light refrain, which it always did, and made the detective sick. He bit down on the gag in anger. "Don't look up at my eyes, you'll lose yourself in my complexity and genius. Look at my shoes instead. Aren't they amazing?" Moriarty's voice was unusually calm and gentle, and hypnotic to the painfully restrained Sherlock.

"These are real Louis Vuitton. A vintage black Italian leather sneaker! It doesn't look like a sneaker, does it? But oh, sweetie, it is just sooooo cooooomfy." He began walking towards Sherlock, crossing each foot in front if the other like a runway star. "Wouldn't you looove to be cooomfy right now? You shoulders must be aaaaching, and your bare knees on this hardwood floor? Ugh, it must be dastardly."

Sherlock was in a dull aching pain. With his arms bound up and behind him, and supporting his upper body weight was not comfortable, and his pants had been cut off just above the knees. He could feel his knees turning red, and his wrists getting swollen against the leather restraints.

Moriarty was upon him. Sherlock began to sweat lightly in fear, and Moriarty could smell it. Oh he was so happy to see his new pet scared. All the pets were the first time. He took the final step and closed the gap, his thigh pressing up against Sherlock's forehead. The detective tried to jerk away, but the bonds didn't allow him to move very much.

With a sigh, the criminal clenched Sherlock's curls in between his fingers and yanked. There was a whimper as the binds yanked on the detective's swollen wrists, and then a slight choking noise as Moriarty yanked his head against the tight collar. A few seconds after Sherlock quieted, he released his grip on the curls and began petting the detective absentmindedly and lovingly. "You could be comfortable if I could trust you, Sherlock. But I can't. You would try and run awaaay." He scratched the base of the detective's head affectionately, like one would to a dog, before walking behind him.

"I'll be right back, my little pet. Stay theeeeeeeere," Moriarty laughed maniacally, his cackles then suddenly muffled by a slam of a large door. Slowly the gut wrenching noise was quieted, but not before Sherlock really began panicking. All Sherlock could do was stare at the red scarf Moriarty left on the floor beneath him.

* * *

John was sitting in a cold room by himself. There was a single chair across from him, and he stared at it lividly. His knee was bouncing, and his hands clenched into tight fists on his lap. The doctor was developing a headache because of how hard he was clenching his jaw. And he just stared at the chair, waiting.

The door opposite the one he came in opened, and a distraught Mycroft walked in. There were bags under his eyes and he didn't look quite as presentable as usual. John stood up as the door opened. The older brother waved at him dismissively. "Sit down, John."

John continued to stand there, fists and jaws clenched. Mycroft sat down in the foldable tin chair and looked up at the former officer and mirrored his expression, clenching his jaw and slightly puckering his lips in anger. In a firm and loud voice he spoke, "Sit down, John." Unnecessarily, he gestured to the chair John had been sitting in.

Reluctantly he sat, pulling at the knees of his trousers and wiping them off nervously. "So? have the blood tests come back?"

Mycroft nodded solemnly. "It is yours-"

"Well I could have blood well told you that," John snapped.

The older brother held up his hand in defense, "Yes, we assumed as much, but it contains a compound that is only found in a rare flower in South America."

He puzzled his brow. "And what is the significance of this?"

With a sigh, Mycroft ran his long fingers through his hair. He leaned over and placed an elbow on his knee. "John," he sighed again and placed his hand on his forehead in defeat, "we have no idea."

They sighed simultaneously, and John mirrored the government official. The doctor was the first to compose himself. "What about the fingerprint?"

Mycroft leaned back into his chair. "That has a very interesting answer."

Tilting his head to the side, John gestured for him to continue.

"We searched through every database available. The owner of the fingerprint belonged to a boy who died years ago."

John absentmindedly touched his hip, where he will be permanently scarred, and where they had found the bloody fingerprint. "Who was this boy? A juvenile delinquent? Someone in the foster system?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Stop being so predictable. No, it belonged to a boy genius. His name was James Powers."

* * *

Moriarty stood with his hands in his pockets at the doorway and grinned devilishly. His new pet was so cute. Struggling against the leather bonds, even three hours later. He was at the end of his chain though, Sherlock. The sun had began to set over the orchard and the crisp cold of the room began to wane with the sun, sending shafts of bright orange light cascading through the gigantic windows, broken by the winter branches of apple and cherry trees. The light was warm and comforting. It shattered across Sherlock's naked back. He glistened like a raw diamond ready to be cut and shaped and molded into something more fabulous than the stars.

The detective would break in just a few minutes though, as he said. The tremors that ran through the lithe man's body were the final signs. How exquisite it was to watch a soul be severed in twain so slowly. To sit back and watch with a glass of wine as someone struggled for their life, and knowing that the game was rigged.

And Moriarty couldn't hold back the laughter when Sherlock began crying. It was so soft and innocent. He may have grown up a lot since Moriarty had been gone, but inside, Sherlock was still a child whose genius was abandoned. The villain gave a small chuckle, and then glowered at the thought. If his genius had been cradled and held in regard, he would be something. He licked his canines, dragging his soft pink tongue over the point and wished there was blood. It was too late now though. Diamonds get tainted with age.

He poured a second glass of wine and wandered aimlessly over to the scene. Sherlock stopped moving altogether when the sound of the shoes hit the cherry floor. Moriarty smiled. All of his pets did the same thing after the first time. That tension in the shoulders, and the readiness in the thighs. Even after hours of enduring pain, pets always were ready for attack of their seemingly unloving master. But they were so wrong.

Delicately, he placed the two glasses of white wine on the bay window. The golden colors reflected and dashed off the light like pixies running from the hellfire. He sat next to his glass, and crossed his legs, staring at his work, sipping at the liquor with glee. "Look at me, darling dear."

Sherlock didn't move an inch.

He sighed and set down his glass. "Deary, you will have to learn to listen to me." He stood and walked towards an open cabinet on the far wall and clicked his tongue while searching. "Now, pet," he grabbed what he wanted and walked over to stand in front of the detective. His toes edged at the scarf, black on vicious red. "Look at me."

Sherlock didn't move.

The flogger came down hard against Sherlock's shoulders, and through the ball gag he screamed. "Look at me." He punctuated his sentence with another slash of the flogger, and dragged the suede gently across the already red marks. Moriarty felt a heat welling up in his stomach and his thighs quivered slightly. The red marks on Sherlock's pale skin were like fire in a sea. Moriarty rolled his head and popped his neck, taking in the exquisite scent of fear and pain. He lashed Sherlock again.

Sherlock didn't move, except to scream.

Three more lashes across his shoulders, and three more moaning screams around the ballgag. "Pet, it will all stop if you look at me."

No movement.

"Don't make me get mean."

Sherlock winced slightly at the thought, but did not look.

Moriarty shook his head and unhooked Sherlock from the rope, letting him fall to the ground with a hard thump. His hands were still bound. Moriarty kicked him, making the detective roll over instinctively at the pain. "Last chance. Look. At. Me."

And finally Sherlock did, and Moriarty laughed at him. Those eyes held such a fury and anger that was unprecedented in any other of his pets. The villain held up his hands, open palm, with the flogger still in his hand. He smirked and turned his head to the side. "Oh oh oh oh oh. Someone is angry. Will he tell me why?" With a single movement he grabbed the ballgag and pulled it over the detective's head. He grimaced slightly and threw the gag into a wicker basket a few feet away. Then Moriarty looked at his hand and clenched it in disgust, then opened it. He stood there for a while, gazing at the silky saliva. No one, not even he understood why the involuntary sharing of fluids held such horror for him.

And the he felt it hit his eye, more saliva. He didn't even look, and took the flogger to Sherlock's face. There was an honest scream this time. Moriarty wiped the saliva out of his eye, then ran his hand over the suede of the flogger, examining it intensely. "Now why didn't you look at me?" He didn't grace the detective with even a cold glance.

"I couldn't!" The flogger came down on his face again.

"But darling, you didn't even try. Why?"

Sherlock, who had been trying to catch Moriarty's gaze then turned his face to the side and grimaced.

Another whack of the flogger. "Why?"

"I..."

"You what?" Another two hits. By now Sherlock had stopped screaming, his body being adjusted to the type of pain the flogger inflicted.

Still, after he was done panting from the pain, Sherlock looked back at Moriarty, who towered above him, jaws clenched, and his hand grabbing at the handle of the flogger in anticipation of another hit. His heart skipped a beat and the words rolled out of his lips unexpectedly. "I don't know."

Moriarty smiled and grabbed the tassels of the flogger in his hand and clenched the soft leather. "Good. Good answer."

Sherlock sighed heavily in relief as the villain began walking away, back to the cabinet. While he was still in a compromising position, Sherlock felt himself relax and finally he was able to breathe. The thought of escape never even crossed his mind at this point.

Moriarty returned and sat in the window again. He took the second glass of wine and set it down on the ground. "Drink."

Sherlock, still on his back, struggled to look at the villain, but could only see the tips of his shoes. "I can't."

The villain grinned. "Do you want me to get out the flogger again?"

Sherlock whimpered.

"Good boy. Now, drink."

Moriarty watched the show in amusement. There was still a bar connecting his collar to his wrists, preventing the detective from bending in a crunch. Finally the detective arched his back opposite from the bar and could sit up. This was actually fairly quick, which almost impressed Moriarty. Almost.

Sherlock ground his hips, neck, and shoulders, trying to get everything back into place after being suspended for three hours. "Ah ah ah, did I say get comfy?"

The detective snarled and walked on his knees over to the glass of wine. When he was close, Moriarty held his foot against his head, and then tucked it under his jaw, like a longing hand under the jaw of a lover. "Answer the question."

"No."

"No what?"

"No you did not ask me to get comfy."

"Aaaaaaand?" He sang out this word, and could see Sherlock shiver slightly.

Sherlock was silent.

The villain sighed and kicked the detective lightly, teasing at pain. "Take a guess Sherlock. You have a small chance of getting it right."

"No you did not ask me to get comfy," The detective looked up at Moriarty and spat out, "Sir."

Then the villain actually kicked Sherlock with just enough force to receive a quick intake of air. "Trick question. I don't know how I want you to address me." He laughed.

Sherlock scowled and sat in front of the glass of wine, waiting. Moriarty simply smiled and sipped at the wine. "Well? Go ahead." He gestured with both his glass and foot.

The detective cocked his head to the side and glowered. "I can't much drink without my hands, can I?"

Moriarty smiled and gave a contemptuous laugh. "Yes you can."

Sherlock blinked, and the villain gestured with his glass and foot again. "Go ahead, drink." He sipped at his own wine.

"How do I know it isn't poisoned?"

"That's a sorry excuse for someone in your position."

"I still have a point."

"Just drink."

Sherlock licked his lips and smiled widely. "No."

Moriarty glared and stood, again, proving his power over Sherlock, but the detective simply sat back on his haunches defiantly. The villain placed his forefinger and thumb at his temples and rubbed. He growled like a thing possessed, "I do."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side and opened his mouth. He was going to ask, when Moriarty answered for him. He took the nearly empty glass of wine and smashed it, leaving the point of the stem remaining. "Look at me! Look at me and ask your question. What do I do? I get my hands dirty." He pointed the stem at Sherlock's throat and drew a pinprick of blood. "Now drink that wine, or I will drink of your blood."

Finally he got the reaction he wanted. James saw it all disappear behind his eyes and replaced with a shaking emptiness. The detective swallowed, as his mouth had gone dry, and his eyes began flickering back and forth, searching for what was lost. James smiled and backed away. "Now, Darling Dearest," he took the tip of his shoe and pushed the remaining wine glass towards the detective, "Drink."

Sherlock bowed, his eyes remaining on the villain, and stuck his tongue into the glass, and slurped. James smiled and dropped the stem of the wine glass. He sat down on the window, and placed his hand in the detective's hair. He flinched at first, but then simply accepted the touch. The villain smiled again and tousled his hair. "Good boy."

* * *

"You're kidding me."

"No, Doctor Watson, I am not."

John bit his knuckles lightly, pacing back and forth in the dark, windowless room. He had that nervous, sick smile on his face. "So you're telling me that Carl Powers was his brother?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Sadly there are very few documents regarding the boy. A few newspaper articles regarding his proficiency in mathematics, science, and psychology-"

The doctor threw his hands up in the air in anger. "Really? Psychology? I should have guessed. Of course a purebred psychopath would excell in psychology. I bet he knows all about how to look at someone and make them scream..."

The older brother watched as John began pacing back and forth across the concrete floor, ranting and waving in anger and fury. He sighed and gave a sympathetic gaze at the haggard man. "John."

The doctor stopped mid rant and flipped on Mycroft, his finger pointing accusingly. "What?"

Mycroft sighed. "Go home. Go to your wife. Relax."

John sighed in a deep anger. "How the fuck am I supposed to go home, when my best friend has been kidnapped by the world's most insane criminal?"

Mycroft sighed. "But there is nothing we can do."

John was about to scream and let loose, but he paused, and thought for a second. "We...?"

"Yes John. We. I hate this, but I have no idea what to do. The little hints; the mark on your hip, the fingerprint, the newspaper clipping, the poison in your blood, I have no idea how they are connected. And even if I did, I don't know how that would lead to Sherlock."

The doctor felt himself relaxing as he watched Mycroft explain this. And as the older brother explained, and his eyes welled up slightly with tears, John realized the truth. They had no where to go. There was nothing to do.

The doctor fell into the foldable chair, defeated. There was silence for a few moments before John solemnly asked, "Could I see the newspapers?"

Mycroft sighed. "John, I can't-"

"Look, Mycroft, even Sherlock admitted he could use my help."

"That's because-" Mycroft swallowed his words. If John didn't know then he wouldn't be the one to tell him, not now, not like this.

"Because why?" John snapped.

"Because he liked showing off. But I do agree that a simpler perspective may help."

John thought about rolling his eyes, but really he was used to it by now. "Thank you."

They both stood simultaneously, and could feel the cold harsh reality of what was coming in the cold and unemotional air of the room. But neither could face the reality. They turned to the door beyond where Mycroft's office was, and marched towards the inevitability.


End file.
